


Sideways

by mouwrost



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age Inquisition - Fandom
Genre: Gen, romance will take a while and probably be secondary so i dont think this is a slow burn, this is gonna probably be very oc heavy also by the way, working on this on the side of other things updates will probably be slow and small
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-07-27 22:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16228595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouwrost/pseuds/mouwrost
Summary: Cyril Cadash was exhausted. If she could dream, she wouldn't, simply from how bone tired she was ever since this mess began. Every day came with new adventures, new people to meet, and she couldn't wait to get out of this situation. She'd never agreed to do this, to be this, and yet...Here she was.Evidently.





	1. Chapter 1

It was another fine morning in Fereldan's rural country side. Redcliffe wasn't far, but they weren't going there. Much as she could use a city, a proper tavern, a bed someplace other than the fine, sturdy, hideous tents of the Inquisition. The Seeker - _Cassandra_ \- was speaking with that Vale guy again. The refugees needed help, of course they did, but did she have to drag ass through every hill and stream in the hinterlands for it? They were keeping her to seal rifts, and yeah she didn't mind lending a hand with shipments or finding supplies for people, but this was getting to be too much. It had been too much since before she came to Fereldan, crammed into a musky, wet cabin on some merc ship with half the security and four of the runners from her clan. She figured the others were probably all dead, at this point. Few enough people were in Haven, and the fact continued to be that she was the only survivor of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Just her.

The thought sent another shiver through her spine, but Cyril blamed it on Fereldan's cold air. The land wasn't frozen yet, winter hadn't settled in, but it was still  _freezing_ here. So much so that her pale cheeks were constantly flushed, her face so often battered by the cold wind that she felt the skin must be raw by now. Fereldan had seemed interesting enough for a time. Enough so that she'd agreed to work security on this gig. Templars and mages both needed lyrium, and there were plenty at the conclave to mean lots of big shipments. The Cadash Clan had cinched some prime deals before other carta had the chance. Or maybe it was just arrogance that they'd gone for something local clans saw as a mess. If that was how they'd seen it. Cyril had expected it to be a quick, clean job. Finish some deals, make some new ones, sit around a little while to watch the humans, and leave. Go on a vacation to visit Clan Brekkel and enjoy their personal tavern. Clan Brekkel probably wouldn't let her anywhere near it, now. Not with how closely she was watched by the Inquisition, not if she couldn't make it worth their time.

At least she wasn't the only one fit to complain, Varric was three times as vocal as she was about how awful the weather, and hills, and _nature_ was.

 _At least the trees are kind of pretty_ she thought to herself, seeking out the dwarf in question. He had one leg propped up on the other knee while he shook out his boot, leaning against a curving pine. Bianca was sitting pretty in the sun, the masterwork crossbow always seemed to shine. She'd admitted, just once, to Varric that she was a tad envious of his favourite toy. He told her some ridiculous tale of finding Bianca guarded by Chantry priests beneath a half-forgotten temple near Ostwick, and that he'd had to fight off six different mercenary groups to get in.  _All worth it,_ he'd said, wiping a handkerchief against some smudge on the metal,  _I'd fight a hundred more to keep her_. Cyril was certain he had a different story to tell anyone and everyone about the crossbow, that he might even tell a different store to the same person. Maybe she should ask again, just to see what he came up with next. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she scratched at her lightly stubbled chin as she glanced towards the other member of their party.

Solas was standing near enough to Cassandra to hear everything clearly, but not close enough to actually be a part of the conversation. He always seemed to be watching, listening. He'd probably make a great broker for carta deals with the apostates, but she wasn't certain if he'd take kindly to that statement. He might not realize it was a compliment, few enough people thought anything good about the carta. Not that it was entirely unwarranted, but she'd still noted when Solas' eyes had narrows - just slightly - when Varric claimed camaraderie through being shifty smuggler types. He answered her questions all the same, though, and offered a few of his own, all simply curious. Too many questions might put her on edge, but he seemed the type to ask anybody anything that came to mind. Solas had an elegance to him, a refinement, but he still had a bit of a social awkwardness to him that made Cyril like him. Maybe it was his pride, he'd reminded her of some of the younger runners back home, the ones that walked about with a swagger. Chests all puffed up like roosters on some human farm. She liked to trip them sometimes when they went by, just cause she knew they were strutting with their heads so far back they wouldn't see her stick her foot out. Then usually they ended up punching each other for a while before one of the clan heads either pulled them apart or called for bets. Solas wasn't that bad, of course, and even if he was...

Well he was probably too clever to fall for that. Even if it would be hilarious to see.  
Solas was a good bit taller than a lot of the elves she'd met, mostly runners and spies and the occasional apostate needing some lyrium.   
And Cyril was a good bit shorter than most dwarves, enough so that it was a consistent part of the teasing she'd received when she was younger.  
Until she started kicking the faces in on anybody who jabbed at her about it too seriously.

Solas turned to her, striding for where she leaned on a dilapidated stone wall. Cassandra nodded, once, to Vale. He gave her one of those stiff Inquisition salutes before she began cutting to them. Cyril could hear Varric sigh from where he was still leaning against the tree, and Cassandra gave him a tight frown. Cassandra moved efficiently, but smoothly. She could be impatient and go storming about, but there was often a grace to her movements. Controlled and sturdy. She probably had a stomach tighter than a wyvern's bite. Somebody confident enough in their own body, Cyril guessed, to know how she related to the world around her. Cassandra probably knew where everything and everyone around her was within a few blinks.

 _And she's so damn pretty_ , Cyril thought, peeling herself from the wall. 

Cyril sighed too, however, less theatrically, through her nose. Cassandra couldn't hear it, but Solas did, earning her a cutting side glance. Thankfully he didn't feel the need to comment. 

"We will go further south into the hills, there is something of a cult forming there. Perhaps they can be convinced to offer aid to the Inquisition, Herald."

"There are probably cults forming everywhere, what brings your attention so strongly to this one?" Cyril asked, trying not to frown at the holy title Cassandra kept giving her.

"They are close by," the Seeker answered, unperturbed, "and seem to be Andrastian, from the scout reports. They may be more willing to help than others." 

Cyril nodded, doing her best to keep her shoulders from slouching. How did Cassandra find the energy to keep this up? The woman was a force of nature, to be sure, but at least that will and near-ferocity wasn't focused on Cyril. Anymore. For now. She beckoned Cassandra to lead on, rolling her neck and stretching her arms a bit as they left Vale's camp here. Once Cassandra's back was turned, and the keen-eyes of Solas and Varric were no longer on her, Cyril stuck out her tongue at the Inquisition banner flapping in that frigid wind. It was going to be a long day.

And she was tired. 


	2. Hills and Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hinterlands offer little more than hills, bears, and cold.  
> Still, for a more-or-less kidnapped Carta member, this can provide opportunity...
> 
> {Emetophobia warning!!}

They set out for the cult Cassandra has marked as their next immediate target. Solas wonders, baldly, if they should not turn their attention to Redcliffe, a small ways north. Given they've heard of no rifts plaguing the town, however, Cassandra thinks it would be more pertinent to go visit the Andrastian Weirdos. Varric points out that many of the supply caches they've also decided to look for would probably be more secure in the hills. 

"Hills seem like a mistake to me sometimes," Cyril mutters as they climb further and further up, earning a groan of agreement from Varric.

Certainly, her carta clan had plenty of business out and about, but they used  _roads_. Roads built by the city states to ferry goods that didn't snake along the hills all bumpy and uneven and  _steep_. Roads that made  _sense_. She spent the better part of the first hour into their trek frowning at the ground under her feet, then at the clear blue sky above them, and even went so far as to stick her tongue out at the breach in the distance when Cassandra wasn't looking. Solas treated her to a very wry glance, eyebrow arched high as his shoulders shook with some attempt to contain his laughter. Varric stared at her, face a bit blank, before he smiled, sadly. 

"What?" 

"How old are you?" He asked, earning them a curious look from the seeker. 

Cyril tugged at the edges of her gloves a bit, sighing through her nose. "I'm turning twenty this year. Does it matter?" 

Varric didn't answer her, just clapped her on the shoulder with another sad smile while Cassandra looked a bit uncomfortable, and Solas didn't look at them at all. She mustered up as much of her pride as she could, and pushed forwards, storming a bit in her steps admittedly, and took up leading the group as they continued onward. Cyril kept her head high, gaze ahead, and tried not to fume or pout. Why should it matter, at all, how old she was? They didn't seem to care about that when they accused her of blowing up the damn conclave. They didn't ask or care as they poked and prodded at her arm those few days after she woke up again. They didn't care on the entire damn trip down to these damn hills! She sticks her tongue out at the thing trying to tear their world in two and suddenly it's a big deal? There were plenty of carta kids working security, smuggling, even in the enchanting and the mines that were younger than her. It's not like there were a lot of people to spare on labor, Cyril's been in this work for years already, and she'd be  _damned_ if she was gonna let them look  _down_ on her any more than literally just because she's not some old fart like the rest of--

Cyril had become so caught up in her thoughts she almost missed it, the whisper of a bow being pulled taut, but she had her shield up quick enough, sword in hand, for the arrow to smack into the gleaming steel and clatter to the ground. A barrier fell into place around her, and she nodded once before charging in, clashing her blade down on the templar that emerged from between the brush before her. It was a cacophony of noise then, and she was happily swept up into it. She didn't consider herself a very violent person, but she loved a good fight. She was also used to fighting with her carta clan though, her cousins and family friends. She knew how they moved, they knew how she moved. Fighting with the inquisition, while they proved to be much more versatile fighters, still didn't quite flow right for her. Fighting with  _Solas_ was just down right funky. It's not like he's the first apostate she's ever met! But she's never been any kind of friend or specific ally with an apostate before. It was all just  _business_. Solid, understandable, held to its own specific quirks.

The inquisition didn't sign any kind of contract with Clan Cadash.

The barrier fades and she looks over in time to see that the templars have very thoroughly divided their little party here. Or, well, Cyril's become a bit cornered, is all. Solas is pressed in tight with Varric, the two of them laying heavy fire - bolts and uh... actual fire - against a templar captain that Cassandra is charging against. The templar archers have also turned their attention to the seeker, and in one stunning moment, Cyril realizes the only person aware of her location at that moment is herself, and the man fighting her. He's not bad, but his balance is off. He keeps swaying gently to the left, leaving his right side open as he tries to compensate for his lack of balance. His movements are fast, furious... and jerky. He's probably addled from a lack of lyrium, but there seems to be enough in his system for his attacks to bear those weird electrical  _zings_ of magic that the Chantry says is normal and okay. The whites of his eyes are mostly pink, and his face is haggard, and Cyril knows that look in his eyes. This is somebody who is tired, has taken heavy losses, and wants a quick easy win. Cyril tries not to smirk and lets him push her further and further back, into the brush, gaining lots of ground between the two of them and the bigger fight down the field. As it happens, her own companions and the group their fighting start moving further away from her as well, and adrenaline begins to pour through her breath and blood like a dam bursting. 

Clashing blades. 

Swipe.

Another step.

Parry and dodge.

Another step, and another.

She just... needs... a bit more... distance...

She can get out of this.... step...by... step....

All at once her party is completely out of her line of sight, and she can't even hear the din of battle any more.  _Perfect_ she thinks, with a wild grin, as she lets the man in front of her lead her a little further back. She smirks, ready to begin her return onslaught. She'd love to draw this out right now, really get this frustration and heavy tiredness out of her arms, but it'll be easier if she can finish him off quickly. Then, she can hide the body. Then, she can disappear. 

Cyril wasn't counting on the drop, or the river below it. Rookie mistake, maybe she is still young, not getting a good understanding of the layout of the land around her. Her foot slips, and her swing goes wide, and the templar manages to knock the blade entirely from her hands. He pushes forward still, and the edge of his blade digs into her wrist with a heavy bite. Cyril forces the shield at him, a different kind of adrenaline taking over now, heady and nauseating. She aims for that uneven left side, but she moves too desperately. The weight is more than she should have tried to press, and she tilts to the side, and the world sweeps up and past her. The wind wooshes past her ears as she falls, and without really meaning to she screams, arms flailing for some kind of purchase. Cyril smacks her damaged wrist into a crumbling dirt ledge, and her head hits something, a tree root she thinks, before she before she remembers to take in a deep breath. The water crashes around her ears, a cold sting stiffens her back and shoots into her neck, arms, legs. For one very disorienting moment, she sinks, and twists, and kicks. 

The river, thankfully, is a sleepy one. Cyril, however, is still in full armor. The gentle current does little to push her, to sweep her out entirely, but she's still sinking towards the bottom. Breath swelling, burning, in her chest, her throat feels dry and too small. She starts unbuckling as much and as best as she can, shucks off her belt and bandoleer. Cyril just barely gets her pauldrons and shin guards off before her breath all comes barreling out of her. She sucks in, body working on muscle memory before she can temper herself, and ends up choking on water as she kicks and kicks and _kicks_ , and the world feels fuzzy and dark and she feels small and cold and awful.

And tired, she's still so tired inside, but  _dammit, no_.  _This is stupid, this is just ridiculous_. She was one of the best warriors of the Cadash clan, and she wasn't going to die from drowning because some mage hating lunatic managed to push her off a stupid cliff into a stupid river in the _stupid_ hills at the ass-end of Fereldan. 

Her head shoots out of the water, and shes kicking and swimming and gagging, clutching at roots and jagged bits of stone as she heaves herself upwards. All dignified and noble, she smacks face first into the rock and vomits water, her nose burns and her chin is sore, and her arms hurt like a bitch, but she's out. She's breathing. 

She breaks down sobbing, collapsed in a heap of water and vomit and blood. 

 

~

She wakes up later, damp and disgusting. She squints up, seeing a dirt canopy above her, roots and bits of stone poking out from the soil. Carefully, she sits up and looks at the river in front of her. She sticks her tongue out at it. Her tongue, which is very, very dry. Maybe from nearly drowning, and also throwing up. Standing is a bit more difficult, her body is cold and and sore and tight. Cyril's arms shake as she pushes against her knees, padding gently to the edge of her little cave. It looks a little close to sunset now, the world bathed in beautiful, creamy orange light. She doesn't actually know about what time it was when she fell, though. Does the sun set happen earlier in the day down south? For some reason she feels like that's a thing. She ruminates over it a bit blankly for a minute, prodding her swollen lip with her tongue and stretching her arms out.

There's a little slope leading into the river, gentle and just wide enough for somebody Cyril's size to rest on comfortably. So she does, washing her filthy over-shirt and jacket and frowning again at the cold air. She walks a little more into the water, the riverbed sliding out a bit from under her boots and sending her a barely off balance. Still, she retains her footing, and peeks up at the treeline. No sign of the templar, or the inquisition, but she can see the spot she fell from a little ways down. She doesn't see an immediate way back up, so she sets to cleaning out her arm and bloody nose, wrapping the former in some fabric she tears from her over-shirt. Looking behind her, the little cave she'd pulled into seems to slope further in, and around. Better than standing in the water, probably. 

Cyril knocks her boots on the soil wall as she climbs out of the water, slinging mud across the stone.

_Stone._

It looks solid enough... _all the Stone is connected_ , she remembers her grandmother intoning as she lead her down into the dark, into a part of the deep roads they'd reclaimed. Cyril rests her hand against the Stone, and closes her eyes. It takes a bit of time, but she clears her mind, and breathes. Deep and even. In and out. Slowly, the pull sings to her. She can only just barely feel the Stone, hear it, gentle and guiding. It's warm against her hands, now, and fills her mind with gold and blue and white. She smiles, reassured at the weight of the earth surrounding her, cradling her, and moves forward into the dark. Keeping her eyes closed has always made the Stone feel closer to her, but her sense isn't quite strong enough to warn of debris, and she stumbles a bit, stubs her toes on loose rock and shale. When she feels the wind on her face again and opens her eyes, she's surprised to find herself in a dusty Carta stash, tucked away in a dank hidey-hole. There's an old wooden ladder mounted into a wall near the opening, and she can barely see the sky darkening into heavy reds and purples, stars peeking out between the streaks of colour. 

She doesn't recognize the clan emblem painted onto the walls.

Well, she's Carta.

This clan can deal. She needs stuff. Be generous, guys.

She shucks off her clothes quickly, but upon consideration decides to hide them in a cleft in the tunnel behind her. Won't do if the inquisition finds this place and her clothes with it, she thinks. The carta gear is not too unfamiliar to what her own clan makes and wears. White underclothes, grey and black shirts and trousers, leather armor and heavy wool lined surcoats. Her clan usually uses dark greys and reds. A lot of clans in the free marches seem to, now that she thinks about it. This armor is hues of brown, with brassy buckles that gleam easily in the meager light poking through. She finds a small weapons case, too, mostly bows and daggers. She takes boot knife for herself, and uses their first aid supplies after a bit of thought. After a few more moments of poking around she finds a a relatively new ledger, some trade records, and a case of wine and dried foodstuffs. Cyril takes the time to chow down on some hard tack - which is frankly disgusting - and a few sips of wine. She tallies up the approximate cost of the supplies she's taken, and jots them down in the ledger. 

 _Bill to Clan Cadash, with love, Cyril_. 

For good measure, she doodles a little picture of herself winking at them. 

Looks like this is Clan... Feraka. Cool, nice, whatever. 

She jots down their name and clan emblem and tucks the paper into one of the pockets, though.

Cyril sets out, again, then, climbing up and up the ladder and into the open air. The opening to the little cavern exists behind a busted up statue of Andraste, and in the distance, she can hear wolves howling. She takes a deep breath, smiles at the sunset, and sets out again on the open road.

Not quite  _awake_ , but not so tired now, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think most of Solas' wondering is done while bald though LMAO


	3. Down the Old Roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hills don't feel so bad when you can set your own pace, when the comforting tug of clothes you understand the make of are embracing you. It's an easy world to pass through on her own, even though she's never quite been alone before. Cyril misjudges, though, what difficulties might come with that, but she's confident she can deal. She can make her way north, or east, and find a port. She can go home. 
> 
> Until she fucks it up.  
> Best laid plans, right?

It wasn't too surprising that the nights in Ferelden were even colder than the day. That's how temperatures  _usually_ worked, of course, but she didn't really count on the  _wind_ getting  _worse_. Shivering in her new clothes, Cyril let out a disgruntled groan as she mounted another damn hill and looked out over the landscape before her. The hills weren't so bad, now, that she wasn't being driven up them at a near-ridiculous pace. Why did tall people have to move so damned fast? There's folks out there with tiny legs, be reasonable. She'd successfully managed to make her way a few miles east before the weather got completely unbearable, her ears numb despite the fur-lined hood she'd tugged on tight. It was time to find some shelter, though, and she'd need to find it fast. The stash she'd found was pretty well stocked, but lacked any camping gear. It was a store for people who already had most of what they needed, not for partially-drowned tourists who'd stumbled into it from a connected cave. 

Her eyes were pretty adept at seeing in the dark, thanks to working mostly below-ground security back home. All the same, that didn't exactly make it easier to spot any kind of possible shelters. The hills were occasionally interrupted by jagged, rocky outcroppings, but she'd not found any suitable caves tucked between them. It was getting more annoying than anything at this point, she'd make camp someplace open if she could get enough for kindling, but she didn't like that idea. Anybody could stumble on her if she did that, and she was technically on the run at this point. Some unnatural lumps and shapes stuck just barely out above a hill in the distance, just weird enough to maybe not be more dumb useless rocks. Rubbing her hands together and tucking them into her armpits, she trudged on through the uneven, grassy terrain towards them frowning up at the navy sky. At least the stars were pretty easy to see her, though they were a dull sense of... well, not comfort, but they were something.

She groaned again as the wind roared past her, making her eyes water. It nearly flopped the hood off her head this time, and as she pulled it back down, she nearly stepped right off the flat drop before her. Not a hill at all, just a small cliff that looped down to a small group of what seemed to be abandoned cottages. They were shabby looking, one partially burned down, but they seemed to be mostly stable. Plus they were built from stone-cut bricks, which would help keep the wind out. Sighing heavily through her nose, Cyril made her way down the slope, looking at the earth around her for signs of blight. These little buildings weren't near to any towns or cities, really, but there was a little dirt road that went steadily past them. It was almost entirely overgrown, the unpracticed eye might not have even noticed it. The Carta used paths like that plenty, though. They were less likely to be policed by military or guards, perfect for illegal or  _slightly_ questionable smuggling. Maybe  _very_ questionable, at times. Especially when fleeing apostates were involved. 

~

Ferelden DID have a recent blight, and a lot of the land was still recovering, she reminded herself. She'd seen lots of darkspawn activity and corruption in some of the deep road tunnels and highways the Carta clans back north were trying to recover. It lingered, and it was disgusting. It had a very peculiar reek to it, one that made the eyes burn if you got too close. All she could smell here was the faint scent of flowers on the wind and frost. No signs of corruption, either, but there was some broken glass lying about, tattered cloth clinging to the edges of window frames and posts. A sign hung from a single frayed rope above a door, the paint had nearly faded completely, and the dark didn't help her make out the words. 

 _Hap... Happy Duke? No... Ducks... Happy Ducks trading and... tavern. Happy Ducks?  
_ _Was that somebody's name? Doesn't seem like there would be a lot of ducks out here._  
Maybe the owner just really liked ducks.

Cyril took a peak inside, the battered door squeaking terribly as the rusted hinges pushed open. She froze instinctively at the noise, waiting for any sort of response or reaction. All that answered her was the screaming wind, weaving it's way between the buildings, through their broken windows. Taking a deep breath she walked inside, surveying what remained of the Happy Ducks. It was pretty bare, only the things that had been built into the structure seemed to remain. Either looted or taken with when the people who lived her left, but that detail probably didn't matter too much. Stops like this weren't common to highway men if they weren't already there, but with how unused the road was and how far everything else of interest would be, she doubted there would be any reason to come here. A Carta sect might be able to make use of it, if there was anywhere interesting to dig, but probably Clan Feraka would have made use of it by now if that was the case. Or some other clan, maybe even some Dalish would camp up here if there was an easy water source. Oh,  _shit_ on that thought,  _was_ there an easy water source? She was still real damn dehydrated. She'd need to try and find one after she decided which building to use. 

The Happy Ducks was pretty solid, but part of the roof had caved in and it was freezing. Cyril kicked at some of the rotted would of the cavern, uncovering some abandoned nug nests and a lot of dried up nug shit. Not bad fuel, but that the animals didn't stick around wasn't the most promising sign in her need of water. She frowned at some of the stone benches lined up on the walls, at the little rooms tucked into the back which we all completely empty. One of them was intact, however, even the glass window. She made a mental note of it and headed back out, wanting to see what the other two buildings had to offer. The partially burned one was pretty barren, too, but the inside held plenty of threadbare cloth and half of a stained tapestry. It was covered in soot, felt a little oily when she took a glove off to inspect it, but it would make a pretty good sleep roll for someone as small as her. She practically pumped a fist in the air when she found a damaged wool blanket by the collapsed fire place, things might actually be turning up. She rolled them up together, tucking them under an arm as she made her way to the final building. 

It was the most intact, part of it actually having been built into the cliff that helped bar some of the wind that passed through the little trading post. There was a distinctly earthy scent to it, and the shape of the building altogether seemed distinctly dwarven. That alone was enough to bring a smile to her face as she wandered through the main room and into one in the back. The floors creaked with unsettling whines as she entered the back, living room. It gave her pause, not from fear that it would give out from under her, but because of the sound. She prodded the floor with the toe of her boot, one ear turned down towards the floor. It was a distinctly hollow sound, she decided, a smirk spreading across her face as she searched for the entrance. A basement, a root cellar, maybe even a small mine, there was something down there. It took a few minutes, the door well disguised with the pattern of the wooden floor boards. When she  _did_ find it, it opened easily with a single yank, almost coming off the hinges in her rush. Tossing the roll of cloths, she slid down the rusty iron ladder and into the dark.

It was pitch black inside, and for a moment she was fumbling around with her hands out until she smacked into a shelf, which rattled with glass when she hit it. Cyril removed her gloves, a little regretfully thanks to the damn cold that immediately assaulted her hands, sending a sharp shiver through her. Stretching her fingers back out, she traced the dusty silhouette of... of an oil lantern. Hell yes, hell  _yes_. She lifted it to her ear, shaking it just barely and letting out a wicked laugh when the sloshing of oil broke the relative silence. After a few moments she found the little door and opened it gingerly, setting it against the the shelf while she fumbled for the little pack of matches she'd salvaged from her wet armor hours earlier. It took a few tries to get one to actually light, but when it did she grinned at the little orange flame in her hands as if it were her best friend.

In this moment, it sure as hell seemed to be.   
Also she didn't have a whole lot of friends, so it might as well be. 

The lantern came to life under the match, a flash of colour that had her sighing dreamily. The door shut with a gentle  _click_ , and she snuffed out the match with her fingers as she rose the lantern in her hand, investigating the shelter she'd found. It was definitely a root cellar, signs of hurried raiding marked some of the turned over planters from when the owners had left. The dust in the air was a little choking, made her throat uncomfortably dry, but she took it in stride. At least it was somewhere to sleep, and safe from the elements and any prying eyes that might spot a fire from the distance. A few plants still grew in the space, onions and potatoes mostly, there were a few radishes buried in the soil as well. What made her nearly weep with joy, however, was the trough of water that lined one clay-brick wall of the small room. It smelled and looked clean when she brought the lantern over to it, and a little oven had been built into an adjacent wall. It still continued some ashes from the last time it'd seen use, and she swept them out with a hand. As the powdery ashes spread into the air at her legs, she laughed again when she looked down and spotted a small pail of firewood. It wouldn't be enough for the night, but there was plenty in the Happy Ducks to salvage. Cyril rushed back over to the shelf, wondering excitedly what other treasures might remain there. 

A few more lanterns, albeit cracked ones. A couple of canvas sacks and backs laid in a heap on the next shelf down, but it was the final, bottom shelf that brought tears of relief to her eyes. She rolled those same eyes at herself, wiping at her face with the back of a sleeve, and leaned down to examine her find. A small camping set, the bed-roll was a little ragged, but the tarp seemed in well enough condition. Moths must hate Ferelden for how fine the quality remained. Smart of them. The inside was mostly empty, but a small pan and a dented tankard hung off one strap. It was almost certainly the best she would find, and she laid it near the oven with the tapestry and blanket she'd taken out of the burned building. The only thing that could make this place better was a little liquor, but she was hardly in any state to complain. Heading back up and out, she whistled a jaunty tavern tune to herself as she collected scrap wood for her hearth. 

~ 

By the time she woke up, the fire that had kept her warm throughout the night was mere embers in the little oven. The cellar was damn well insulated, thanks to the earth and clay it had been built from. She tossed some new pieces of wood into the oven, a few torn bits of cloth too before she struck a match and set them blazing. Pulling the boot knife back out from the cloth she'd set it in last night, she set to cutting a few more onions and potatoes. She wasn't very skilled with these sorts of things, it wasn't something she'd had to do much. Cyril made a mental note to have somebody from the clan teach her about food prep and storage when she got home. The potatoes ended up kind of dry when she'd cooked them last night, just a bit uncomfortable. The onions seemed to retain a lot of juices though, and so she shoved a few of their slices into the potatoes after setting them near the fire. She could use the pan to eat out of really simply, but it was a bit of a shame that she couldn't find any silverware to make eating the meal a bit easier. She'd also been unable to find any usable bottles to fill with the water that slowly flowed through the trough and into little pathways to irrigate the roots growing along the ground, and probably whatever other plants grew here before the previous occupants vamoosed. She'd drink her fill before she left, but she'd need to find a town or something  _fast_. 

Dozing in between the cooking of her breakfast, rotating the potatoes every so often, she realised she had no real idea of what time it was. The floorboards had been slightly reinforced from the inside of the cellar, and no light leaked through. She contemplated poking her head up to check while things were still cooking, but it was cozy here by the oven, and she kind of didn't care that much. Plus it would be cold outside, because there was nothing good about Ferelden weather. She was starting to doubt if there was anything good about Ferelden in general. So far all it'd done was get her arrested, then slightly less arrested, and dragged about like some sort of shitty magical locksmith. And freeze her ears, and nearly drown her. Well that one was mostly her fault, and the templar, but in general. Ferelden sucked. 

Cyril rubbed at her left hand, the fingers having grown a little tingly over the night. It hurt a bit, but it usually did, a slow and throbbing ache that coalesced in her palm and spread down through her wrist. Hopefully somebody back home could figure it out. Solas and the other healers had some tricks for keeping it from hurting too bad, keep her muscles from getting too tense. Dwarves might not have magic directly but Clan Cadash had some damn savvy enchanters. There were some rumors about a gal - Dira or something - out west that was studying all sorts of weird magic too. She'd contacted some of the clans here and there when she needed something hard to find found, was pretty good for business, was the word. A friendly clan had let Cadash know during a dry-season, when business was bare. Maybe they could reach out to her on Cyril's behalf, if she liked weird shit, the mark was plenty weird. Cyril set to cleaning off the boot knife, mind swimming with plans of how to get home: which way would get her there the fastest, would be cheapest. She didn't have a lot of coin on her, maybe she could do some work for a Carta clan and earn some assisted passage, or at least get word to her own clan. Postage across the waking sea wasn't cheap, but probably cheaper than boat passage. Of course, she thought, she could also always try and work on a vessel itself to earn a trip. She didn't know much of anything about sailing, but she could lift heavy shit and tie pretty good knots. 

The sea itself was... pretty unnerving though. The trip to Ferelden was harrowing, she'd spent half of it with her head in a bucket and her captain laughing at her. Cyril felt like she'd gotten the hang of it by the time they'd finished the voyage, but the idea of another one so soon wasn't exactly comfortable. It was the fastest way to get there, regardless. She could snake her way up over land, through Orlais and Nevarra. That would take  _forever_ though, and there'd be a lot of land in the Free Marches to travel after anyways. She'd need even  _more_ coin going that way, possibly get stuck somewhere if she didn't find good enough work. There was a growing presence of Inquisition folks in Orlais too, and while she doubted most of anyone would know her face, it was still a risk. The eastern dregs of Ferelden weren't so occupied though. They'd been a bit prickly with Josephine, she recalled. Hadn't really believed that the Inquisition wasn't a hand of Orlais. She couldn't really blame them for being suspicious, Orlais had occupied Ferelden for something like... what a hundred years? A big number. Gwaren would be a better option than Amaranthine or... Highever? Highweaver? No, no, it was definitely Highever, yeah. 

Further on east and south then, maybe she could break off the old roads at some point and find a caravan to tag along with. It would be easier if she could skirt the Brecilian Forest, she'd read a book once about how the place was haunted. It occurred to her now that the veil was probably just thin there. Really thin, if the accounts in the book were to be believed. Living trees, walking a few paces and suddenly finding yourself hundreds of yards away from where you were, or just someplace completely unrecognizable. Demons and strange animals, bears and wolves that could speak, a man in a tower inside of a rock... she flexed her hand again, wiggling her fingers as she thought about what the breach must have done to that place. She'd try to go south enough then that it wouldn't bother her.

When she pulled the onions and potatoes from the hearth, they were just a little bit charred on the edges. The onion slices she'd slid into the potatoes had helped them from getting too dry, but the bottom of them were still a bit powdery. She burned her fingers and the roof of her mouth digging into them, but felt full enough once she was done. Cyril drank deeply from the trough of water, until she felt a little sick with it, and packed a few more potatoes, onions, and radishes into her pilfered bag, with the remaining scraps of cloth and the wool blanket. The radishes weren't her favourite, but she couldn't risk being picky right now. Even if she caught an animal on the road, she'd need to eat it almost immediately, she didn't have a means to keep or cure meat right now. At least she had some bare medical knowledge, could collect some good disinfectants and other medicinal herbs as she went along for her sliced up wrist. The blade had plunged deep enough that the wound should have probably been stitched, but she made due. Getting  _home_ was more important to her right now than anything else. 

Was that healthy? Ah, well. 

~

Setting back out, the sky was a beautiful shade of blue. The sun was creeping across the sky, but it didn't seem she'd slept in too late. The daylight did make it just a little bit more difficult to figure out her heading. She had to do a bit of wandering around, trying to remember which way she'd been going last night when she spotted this place. After what she hoped was a short time, she was confident she knew her direction, and began to make her way south-east. She kept an eye on the sky, on the ground, looking for signs of people or roads to follow. Ferelden wasn't as densely populated as the Free Marches, or maybe she was just too used to the big city states that left little enough space between them for much more than farming and forestry. Despite Ferelden's size, it felt like very few people lived here. Maybe it was because Ferelden was a hard place to settle, a difficult climate, but she thought a bit grimly that the population may have just been horribly reduced during Orlais' time in the kingdom. 

The Dog Lords seemed to care very ferociously about their lands and people, from what she knew. Even if King Alistair had never quite kept his promise about giving the elves land of their own. She could work with people easily enough, it was important to know how to get into peoples heads as a Carta member, even if you weren't a specific trader or dealer. Politics at large made her head hurt, but one on one Cyril could manage with moderate success. Not that it mattered much on the open plains and hills, the only living souls she could see being nugs and fennecs, and the occasional herd of druffalo. There weren't many trees in the hinterlands, but it still seemed so curious to her that there weren't many birds present. Burrowing birds and pheasants, quails, she'd assumed would have kept quite a generous presence in a place like this. 

Maybe it was too cold for them, too, but at least it meant there were fewer holes for her to stumble over while she wandered. The wind wasn't quite so bad now, just gentle breezes that sent the tall grasses swaying. It was still _cold_ , but the sun on her back helped with that. She would take whatever small victories she might find at this point. After a while, her thoughts began to turn to the inquisition. It was annoying that she thought about them at all, she didn't want any real part of it, but they  _had_ saved her, even if it was at the tip of a blade the first time. Solas was confusing, and Varric was shifty - but so was she, obviously. Cassandra had made her tense, paranoid and a bit angry, at first, but the woman had her own charms. More than anything else she would feel bad about disappointing Josephine, the woman was such a sweet heart, and maybe Leliana would consider killing her once they realised Cyril had run. If she went home, they would almost certainly figure out what she'd done. She shivered in the wind, something coiling in her throat and constricting her chest. She turned her face to the wind, blowing back into the hinterlands, and wished the comfort of the Stone could rise up to hold her. It was maybe silly, but she sent a prayer to the earth that that could happen anyways.

As it stood, she was the only person that really  _could_ close that damn hole in the sky. It was ugly, a total eye sore and it made her teeth tingle when she was near it in Haven. It would probably get worse if she didn't make it better, that could effect the whole world. Maybe it already was. 

It wasn't fair of her, wasn't  _kind_ of her to turn her back on all the lives in danger just because she was... well, she was scared. She had to admit it to herself. Had to know that she wasn't trying to get home out of any kind of spite or strength, but because she was terrified by everything that suddenly came crashing onto her shoulders.

Cyril turned her face to the open sky and groaned, it was practically a scream as it tore raggedly from the deepest parts of her. And then she took a deep breath, held it, loosed it slowly through pursed, dry lips.

"I'm scared," she whispered to the wind, voice small and trembling. 

Shaking her head, squaring her shoulders, Cyril turned around. 

~

Hours upon  _hours_ later, her legs were sore, she had a terrible headache, and was absolutely  _starving_. Cyril was certain she'd fall to thirst before she saw the red and gold inquisition banners flapping in the wind. One more hill, she kept telling herself. One more road, she promised. _Just a little further._ Mostly she was cursing herself internally, externally too when the weird silence of the plains got to be too much. Why was there so little out here? The crossroads and places around Redcliffe were teaming with trees and critters. Goats, mostly, but still there were animals. The vacant hills were starting to grate on her, and the sky was starting to shift into the hues of early-evening, a less than comforting sign. Swearing at herself again, a muttered combination of common and dwarven curses, she choked on her words as she crested a hill and spotted the distant towers of a fort or castle - maybe a large gate - clawing at the sky.

That they were so clear from such a distance - she had to be a few miles away still - was mildly intimidating, but lots of things were bigger than she was. Cyril began rushing her way there, legs protesting as she broke into the most even jog she could manage on the uneven, twisting land. Her pace increased as she found the road - one that bore the marks of heavy traffic - and she was practically bounding into a sprint as she made her way ever closer to the structure. Continuing their protest, her legs strained to what felt like a near breaking point as she forced herself forward. It was a desperate rush she'd set into, one she didn't totally understand, but the sudden impatience that stole over her didn't leave her time to catch her breath. Breath which burned and shuddered in the chill air, lungs feeling taut and wretchedly pained, a dreadful ache that lingered from her near-drowning the afternoon prior. 

That was only the day before, it dawned on her, as she broke past the gates and finally slowed. Bent over at the waist, she rested her hands on her knees as she sucked in jagged, stinging breaths. The wound on her arm had reopened, the blood soaking through the heavy fabric of her coat. She pulled into the alcove within the gates, settling down onto one of the gleaming benches. They were built for humans, of course, so her legs swung once she'd sat down. It was a simple matter of taking the strips of fabric and small amounts of vandal aria and elfroot she'd plucked up on her earlier meandering journey. She sliced against the herbs just  _barely_ with the boot knife, just enough to get their healing juices flowing out. It would be so much better if she could properly make an extract or poultice, but she had to make due. If she'd never tried to run away in the first place, Solas could have patched her arm within breaths.  _Hell, probably wouldn't have even taken this blow if I'd stayed close_. Again she let out a string of filthy, filthy words. Things that would probably make even some of the most vulgar members of her clan cough. 

The astringent properties of the herbs definitely seemed to work, at least, they sure as hell stung as she bound the wound with them and her makeshift bandages. She ran through a few breathing exercises as she did, calming her stuttering chest as she worked. Chewing on the inside of her cheek as she stepped back out of the gate, Cyril observed her surroundings - with a mildly annoyed eye. The heraldry above the gate only marked that it was in Ferelden - which was pointless - and gave no indication on if Redcliffe was nearby. The inquisition hadn't been allowed entry to the city, but at least she could figure out where to go from there. Dressed as she was, she might be able to get in with a few charming words and trade promises. Y'know, whenever she met up again with her little team, maybe they could try that. Might be hard to convince Cassandra to wear some nondescript armor, but Solas and Varric didn't stand out particularly. Well, Varric would stick out among dwarves, not having a beard and all, but other than that nobody would blink much of an eye at them. 

If they hadn't been taken down in the fight with the templars, she suddenly thought, panicked by the idea. They were good fighters, held their own in the scuffles they'd faced together so far but... they  _had_ been backing away during the fight, the templars plowing forward. Maybe it had just been a ploy to try and bring the archers in closer, the only warriors left were the green templar who'd managed to knock her off a cliff - mostly thanks to her own stupid pride - and the bigger guy with a shield. He was lagging last she saw of him though, Cassandra's onslaught relentless and exacting. She picked up a quick pace again all the same, her own attempts to comfort herself buying her little reprieve. An anxious adrenaline was snaking it's way through her, her heart again unsteady and twisting. The more she thought about it, the more her eyes managed to well with tears. Stupid, she was so damn  _stupid_ and  _selfish_ and  _cowardly._ She  _abandoned_ them, hardly gave it a second thought in the moment. Didn't  _care_ about what she'd done until the road stranded her to her thoughts. 

Cyril was glad she'd never been made a leader of anything, the first time she'd had a responsibility all her own and she'd made an ass of herself at the first available opportunity. So stuck in her fervent panic, she almost didn't notice the sharp contorting of the air around her. Skidding to a stop, nearly flipping herself over in the process, Cyril took stock of her immediate vicinity. There was a mostly dilapidated fort not far in front of her, a few trees and shrubs near it, and large brown stones shot from the hills on either side. The darkening sky made it easy to see the green light dripping into the air from a rift behind, or maybe within, the fort in front of her. She could barely, just barely, here the garbled cries and moans of the demons that had emerged from it. 

With a deep steadying breath, slipping her mind in that calm she rarely managed in a fight, she crept forward, closer and closer. 

~

There was a little path that led up to a second-level walkway of the fort. It was more of a secondary gate, really. Smaller than the one she'd crossed through moments ago, all that really remained standing was a single tower and a few rooms on the bottom level. The demons had mostly set themselves circling the rift at the ground below, none having made it to the wall upon which she perched. She didn't have a proper weapon with her, and she wasn't a particularly sneaky person. She doubted she could slip between or behind the demons and take them out one at a time. Especially considering they so often took more than one hit, and more would just spit out from the rift when others went down. Her best bet was getting a solid vantage point, where the demons might not be able to reach her, and force it closed quickly. 

The wall she was on already wasn't so bad of a location, she had a clear line of sight and wasn't so far that she might be unable to reach the rift. It was easily accessible to the demons, too, however. If they came clambering and clawing at her, maybe she could hop down from the ledge, but she wasn't sure she could remain the connection if she did that. Plus she'd probably break a bone or two, or several. It might not be too terrible a height to fall from for people like Cassandra or Solas, but she was particularly short. The only people she knew who were shorter than her were children, which was irritating but probably not what she should be thinking about right now.

Cyril hunkered down a bit lower, creeping closer to the tower. A ladder at the back would give her access to it, but... no, that would be too high, she wouldn't be able to make a connection with the rift from up there. She just had to be fast then. 

And stubborn.   
She was damn good at being stubborn. 

Tucking herself into a cleft between the wall and the tower, as far from the path which lead to her as she could manage, she extended her hand. For extra measure, she tugged the glove off. Gloves hadn't impeded her ability to close the rifts so far, but she didn't want to take any chances here. She couldn't fight her way out, unless she started  _punching_ the demons, but something told her that wouldn't work well. Or at least it wouldn't work for very long. 

She hadn't actually punched a demon yet, she'd need to try that soon, see how it goes. 

Taking another deep breath, stilling her mind, she  _pulled_. Forming that leash with the rifts, reaching for them, always jarred her arm. Drawing in and releasing this energy, this magic, had gotten easier since the breach stabilized, but it was still uncomfortable. The demons reeled on her within a heartbeat, letting out horrible screeches and screams that made her ears ache and ring. Cyril ignored them, pouring every once of stubborn will and mild anger that she had into closing the rift. She didn't look at them, didn't listen, as they surely drew closer. She could do this. Close the rift, close it with one _yank_ of the mark's tether. 

She  _would_ do this. 

The demons were coming closer and closer, and Cyril braced her right arm on the stone parapet beside her, trying to gain even an inch of space to the rift. She didn't know, of course, if being closer to it made her mark any more affective, but at least it made her feel a little better. All things considered, she felt steady in the moment. The droning pulse of sound that followed the link between her hand and the rift echoed between her eyes, nearly drowned out the approaching demons entirely. Close, close,  _closer_. The rift was constricting, twisting on itself and releasing it's hold on the air. Her throat grew more and more dry, her breath began to turn from an easy and regular to sharp, broken gasps. Cold sweat was beading on her brow, when the world below her went green. She leapt back and to the side, not letting that tie break, as a terror pounced into the air beside her. It's echoing, shrill cry broke the even calm she was keeping on her mind, the ground beginning to tremor as it's vile magic swept in. 

"Absolutely not," she ground out, refusing to let herself be knocked supine by its repulsive power. 

Claws dug deep into her back, a rancid smell choking the scream that tried it's best to break through her teeth. The terror's talons were always her least favourite part of fighting any demon, the damn things did more than break skin. Like something inside her soul was being torn into, something that couldn't be fixed once it broke. The pain of those injuries could linger for days, and she sobbed as the claws sank deeper and deeper into her. With a final wrench, an agonized scream, she ripped the rift apart. It shattered in the air, and the demons surrounding her were reduced to little more than small, gleaming flecks of dust. 

Her heart ached, like it was bleeding out from inside her. Everything felt like it was swirling, spinning endlessly as she stumbled back, unable to catch herself as she crumpled to the ground. Her mark  _burned_ , almost worse than it had when she first awoke in the Chantry's cells. A horrid sensation, like being numbed and electrocuted at the same time, spiraled up through her arm. She watched everything from the elbow down shudder and shake, her fingers spasming violently. White and sickly green light began to spiderweb against her vision, it felt like hot needles were being shoved into her temples.

With a final anguished, strangled cry, Cyril's head met stone, and darkness swept in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize how long it had been since I'd updated, sorry y'all! Been working on some original works of late and playing some new games which pulled my mind away from Cyril (sorry baby I love you). 
> 
> I am so So SO BAD at FFXV and Dark Souls III.  
> Not surprising, honestly, I'm bad at most games.   
> At least I'm good at dating sims (they're cathartic as hell)
> 
> (Resident Evil Four I'm very good at though)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwarves aren't supposed to be able to dream.   
> Another strange and almost horrible side effect of all this magic shit, Cyril supposes.   
> At least this time it works to her advantage.

Cyril experiences a moment of profound confusion when she opens her eyes to Haven. The sun is bright and the breach is noisy, and the surrounding snow is glistening prettily in the light. Distant, clashing metal and shouts mark the work of the shoulders, and the tavern beside her is warm and enticing. Yet... she feels as if she's forgotten something. Something pretty damn important. It's like there's a drum beating in between her eyes, and the ground beneath her feet feels like it's shifting. Maybe she just left the tavern, had too much to drink and needed some fresh air. That didn't fit, though it tried it's best to. She reached up with a hand and ran her fingers through her hair. Loosing a heavy sigh, she decided to go talk to Josephine, maybe there was some schedule or something that she'd neglected. Really, Cyril should put more effort into all of this, these people needed her. Right? Or... did she want to leave? Where was she going? The thought sends her almost careening over the top stones of the little steps beside the house Solas was usually inside of. The windows were impossibly dark inside, and it sent an uncomfortable chill skittering up and across her back, her arms. Her arms... didn't they hurt? Staring down at them, rotating them a bit, she couldn't see anything wrong. Even the mark was surprisingly stable, its eerie light still and dull. The observation sent another paranoid itch across her, and she pushed onward a bit more quickly than was probably necessary, deciding instead Leliana was probably the best person to go to. 

"Herald!" She heard from behind her, Solas' voice filled with surprise and...

Relief? Did he need something?   
Well just as good he showed up, maybe he could help her figure out what was weird.  
Something... was weird, wasn't it? She was just thinking about that.   
The path behind Solas seemed infinitely further suddenly, the tavern and walls pushing away, an endless stretch of snow behind them. 

"Hey, Solas, can you help me? Something doesn't feel right."

"I should imagine not, given where we are... it's fascinating but not pressing at this time, there are more important matters," he said, taking several long strides towards her. The words he said made her unease grow astronomically, and her hands shuddered at her sides. Sharp, hot pain squeezed it's way up her right, a terrible ache extending from the anchor. When she looked down at them again, they were fine. 

"I need you to look at me, and still your thoughts for a moment," he said, firmly but not unkindly, "do you remember where you just were?"

She thought for a moment, glancing behind him again at the shadowy tavern.

"I was... beside the tavern?" 

"Are you certain? Focus, Cyril, breathe and remember. Where  _are_ you? What were you just  _doing_ before you came here?"

Something was wrong, but it felt nebulous, felt far away and she was drifting on her feet, Solas's image blurring at the edges.   
Where was she now, if it was so important to know how she got here? He was being vague but it didn't feel so bad. Haven was feeling warm, actually, comfortable, despite her difficulty seeing it. Solas' strange blue eyes tracked across her face, a frown slowly knitting itself into his brow as he repeated his questions more quietly. Cyril had to take a bit of time to think about it, and the more she did, the more her hands  _burned_. There was a horrible dryness in her mouth, her throat, her head pounding endlessly, more and more painful. 

"Breathe, tell me where you were." 

Something snapped against the back of her head, a panic setting in that she didn't want Solas to see.  
"I was... I was closing a rift? Wasn't I? There was... it was a little fort, near the highway I think..." she trailed off, focusing on that thought. Her vision was dancing across the bright snow, skipping across Haven's roofs which now seemed to be flaking off, like ash. Like the burning, petrified bodies of the people in the temple. The stench of carrion and burning flesh trapped her senses momentarily. An unfamiliar energy began to pulse from Solas in steady relaxing waves, and it helped Cyril ground herself. It made Haven feel even further away, too though, the sun slowly ebbing through brilliant shades of orange and purple and night-blue. Stars were twinkling over her head when she opened her eyes again, and Solas was turning slowly, noting the ruin they were standing on. 

Ah, the fort. Right! She passed out.   
Wait, she passed out? How'd Solas get here? Where was she just now, wasn't she someplace else?  
A ragged breath tore itself from her throat, for a moment she couldn't breath. Something was blocking her nose, it didn't feel right.. She could taste blood in the back of her throat.  
Probably from smacking her head into the wall's stone floor. Was something wrong? Solas was looking very intense, eyes tracing the sky as his fingers counted something away. 

She tried to raise an arm to see why it hurt so much, she couldn't remember what she'd done in the fight. There were demons, she knew, they probably got some claws into her or something. She lurched forward at the thought, choking on the blood in her throat as the cold burning in her back seized over her. The terror, it had gotten to her. She could feel the blood trailing down her spine, soaking through her jacket, freezing with the wetness. Cause Ferelden was cold, so  _cold_ , and kept shoving its bad luck at her. The wall she stood on was looking like water suddenly, writhing under her bloody boots. It was rising, the liquid darker and darke, deeper,  _thicker_ and she could feel the wind in her ears. Solas reached out for her, a look of fear overtaking his features, and she plunged below the dark water. And suddenly, all over again, she was drowning. 

~

Things were so dark, and so still. An nagging hollowness was worming its way through her ears, her head, pinching at the base of her jaw. Slowly peeling her eyes open, she rolled onto her back, the movement causing a chain reaction of pain to explode through her. It all  _hurt_ ,  _so much_ , enough so to steal the breath from her. Breathing from her nose was a no-go, it throbbed violently, her eyes crossing momentarily as she squeezed them shot. After a few moments holding her breath, she let it all escape from her throat in a trembling breath. The wind brushed across her cheeks gently, the tears against her cheeks turning cold in its wake. Carefully, she rose her right arm into her sight. Blood was soaked around the sleeve, and she could feel it a bit inside the glove, and it hurt like hell but at least it wasn't still flowing out of her. Setting that arm back down gingerly, she made to lift the other one. A horrid, tingling sharpness cut through her hand and forearm, and she let out a moan at the pain of it. Trying to clench her jaw only made her nose hurt more, so she instead sucked in a deep breath, raising her arm slowly as she breathed it out. Nothing looked broken, but the creepy light was pulsing out of the gloves' cuff. Pursing her lips together, she let her arm fold across her stomach, and tried to stop crying.

A canopy of stars glistened above her, the constellations her only company as she tracked them. She felt as if she'd just been talking to Solas, but it didn't seem anybody was around. Some place in the distance, she could hear a pack of wolves howling. Or maybe it was the wind, preparing to turn brutal and uncaring once more. She didn't want to deal with the wind baring down against her injured face, and with a grunt of pain, she forced herself upwards. Cyril's head spun terribly, but the nausea subsided as she pushed onto her knees, and shakily came to her feet. Her right arm dangled a bit at her side, but she couldn't do much for it much now. Carefully, with wobbling fingers, she pried open two of the buckles of her coat. She slowly slid her left arm into them. Maybe it would be better to rest her right arm, but it really didn't hurt  _nearly_ as much as her marked hand. With a deep breath, she turned herself around, stumbling forward slowly with a limping gait. The pain in her back almost made her give up entirely, but thankfully, she was as stubborn a Carta warrior as there could be. 

Having to stop for a breath on the lower level of the fort did nothing for her already tattered pride, but she told herself not to care. It was pride that got her into this situation in the first place, she had to accept that. This was her fault, entirely, and it was up to her to correct it. Pushing off the wall again, pain lancing through her and stuttering her breath, she advanced. Part of her thought for a moment that it might be best to stay at the fort, maybe barricade into one of the little rooms that remained intact on the bottom level, but a fear that she wouldn't be able to get up again surged through her. It urged her onward, spinning in her head. It was hard to keep her footing, the road was even enough but little dips and rocks set her swaying. Blood began to dribble down her face from her nose, and she resisted the urged to wipe it away with her mostly-good right arm. It wouldn't be worth the expended energy, and she wasn't entirely sure that it wouldn't knock her entirely off-balance. 

As she continues to lumber forward, the tittering of night birds and insects drown out as her breathing grows heavier. Her back continues to tense and twist from the claws embedded in them... however long ago that was. A few hours? Probably not days. There's a nagging sensation at the back of her neck, like she dropped something but can't figure it out. With a groan, she edges forward to the side of the road, and takes a seat on the edge of a large brown stone. She wants to reach into it, find some comfort, but her head is spinning and she's not even sure she could manage to reach that connection with how far away she's beginning to feel from her body. She really, _really_ doesn't want to pass out again. As her eyes tighten at the idea, a sudden exclamation down the road startles her forward, and she nearly retches from the lightening that lashes across her body at the hasty movement.

"Shit, you don't look so good," Varric explains, swinging to a stop before her.

"I've probably looked worse," Cyril replies, voice small and weaker than she'd like.

Varric frowns deeply as Cassandra and Solas come up behind him. Solas immediately drops his pack, rooting around for vials and bottles of potions. Cassandra strides forward, taking a deeper look at her with pursed lips. 

"Solas, we could use some light, if it is not too much trouble," the woman says, her voice softer than Cyril usually gets to hear it. 

With a flick of his rest, his attention not turning away from the medical supplies he unpacks, small balls of yellow light fill the air. It's bright enough to my her wince at it, and Cassandra takes her face between her hands. She tuts, shaking her head in anger as she backs away. 

"What happened to you? We found your sword by the river, and Leliana's people found pieces of your armor, but we had no sign of where you'd gone, or if you were alive," the seeker says intensely, stomping back and forth. Her gaze keeps darting around, her gaze angrily piercing through the night air before turning back to Cyril with obvious concern. 

Guilt tangles in her chest, and she can't decide if she should admit to trying to run away or not. She doesn't want to... it might not make anything better, and could certainly run the risk of making things worse. She can't mull over it too much, as Solas leans before her and requests she removes her gloves. The effort makes her shoulders ache, and her fingers begin twitching with an almost desperate motion. Varric shakes his head at the motion, looking sad and weary. When he meets her gaze, he smiles warmly at her. His sideways grin reminds her of one of the merchants back in Clan Cadash, and the thought makes her just a little bit sad. Still, her lips quirk up at the corners as much as she can muster. It occurs to her as Solas moves to examine her hands that she should probably take the coat off too. 

"Ah," she manages to make out very coherently, before raising an index finger to still him. Cassandra's attention snaps over to her with furrowed brows, worry settling over her features once again. It takes some doing as she unclasps the rest of the jacket, body dragging forward as she tries not to dislodge herself entirely from the stone. She does get stuck trying to tug it off of her shoulders, but it doesn't take Cassandra long to push forward and assist her. The audible gasp that bursts out of the seeker almost makes Cyril groan again. She'd really been hoping it had only felt so terrible because... she was hungry or cold or something not relating to grievous injury. Solas does not move around yet to examine whatever details of the terrors attack must be visible from below her shirt, instead steadying her right arm and examining the deep gash there.

He pours one of the vials over the injury, and it surprises her to find the liquid warm. With the weather and all she would have assumed it to be freezing. Rather than sliding down her skin like most potions would, it spreads out slowly, and she feels a light magic sleeping into her skin from where Solas' hand grips her arm. The potion begins to seep into the injury, urged on by the healing magic, and nearly disappears entirely. A small, stark line of red juts across her pale skin, but Cyril's got worse scars. The pain fades from there almost entirely, and she breathes out a sigh of relief that sets her nose stinging. 

"Well that's broke," Varric says with humor leaning down beside Solas, who sets to examining the mark, "wanna know how I broke mine?"

"Fall asleep and smack into your book?" 

"Hah! No, I'm a professional thank you. Worst I've ever done to one of my novels is forget it at Hawke's place. See, we were in one of these creepy caves out along the coast. Some of them were natural and just gaped out from the cliffs, but others were found when old mine shafts started to collapse in on them. Some fancy fella from Hightown, Antivan guy, nice hair, decided to buy up a couple of those spots after a smuggler crew found out a lot of them had some pretty valuable ore," Varric said, diving into the tale while Solas relieved the pain along her marked arm with a few more vials and spells. He turned his attention to her nose while Varric continued.

"Of course, like  _always_ his miners go missing. Nobody hears a peep, and his 'friends' try to convince him that they'd run off with his goods and that he should find a new investment. He calls in Hawke, and off we go to save the day."

"Were they eaten by dragons?" Cyril interrupted, recalling a similar event from  _Tales of the Champion_. 

Varric winked at her, "so glad you're a fan, Tumbles. No, the well-to-do types in Hightown that hadn't cared about the venture at all decided to hire some mercs to clear out his miners. Most of them were still alive, hiding out in a cave further in, but there were still plenty enough dead," he says gravely as Solas' magic begins to lock into and around her nose. The sensation is unpleasant, like there's something hot behind her eyes, but it dulls the pain considerably. "We charge in, Hawke twirling around with his daggers, Rivani making inappropriate comments, same old same old. We'd just about taken down the mercs when things got really interesting."

"Okay," Cyril said, sucking in a breath when Solas stilled them both with a raised hand.

"I am going to try and set this now. It may still hurt despite the magic, I apologize."

Cyril nods, slightly, steeling her nerves and clenching her jaw tight. His fingers delicately pinch around her nose, though she hardly feels them with how muted every sensation in her face has become. Still, she closes her eyes, rolling her shoulders and slipping into the calm she'd managed during the fight earlier. Well she mostly managed it, she's counting it as a success. There's a deep crack in between her eyes, which flash with a dizzying blue light. It feels like something is sliding down her throat, but there's no taste of iron. Her face throbs for a few moments more while she breathes deeply. Her nose is still clogged from bleeding everywhere, but it doesn't hurt now, at least. Her back still feels ravaged though, and when she opens her eyes to not-beg but deeply request Solas turn his attention there now, he's already moved around her. Varric is looking at her with that floppy smile again, patting her arms.

"So, is this the part where the dragons come in?"

"Do you want it to be?" 

Cyril rolls her eyes, quirking a scarred brow at him until he goes on. 

"No dragons, sorry, Hawke was just as disappointed I promise. There were these big... eh... rock spiders. Daisy had a name for them but I can't remember what it was. Anyways they'd apparently been stationed about by the ancient elves to protect places. Thanks to that they  _usually_ left the Dalish alone. Sadly for us, Daisy wasn't there to smile at it and make it go away," Cyril snorted a laugh at that, "so it starts attacking us. Hawke's tryna coordinate, Rivaini is making size jokes, and the guard captain mostly just looks annoyed at this point. We're making hits, dodging swipes, Hawke manages to get on the things back and drive a dagger in deep. That was about the time we discovered that the damn thing could  _pick shit up._ I get lifted off my feet, poor Bianca falling to the ground behind me, and my arms are pinned to my side as it raises me to it's face. That close, I could smell the acid and on it's breath, its arms were pretty small but damn strong. I couldn't get loose! But then I had an idea... the humans like to say we've got rocks in our heads, right?" he asks Cyril while Cassandra tisks at him in annoyance.

Cyril smirks while Solas continues to tend to the wound at her back. 

"My clan leaders still say that."

Varric barks a laugh, patting Cyril's knee while his head tips down, and she thinks she just barely hears Solas chuckle from behind her. 

"Least it makes me a pretty good battering ram."

"See! That's exactly what I thought. It brought me up to it's face, ready to finish me off, and  _snap_!" he accentuates with a flick of his fingers, "I hit the thing so damn hard that it released me, and toppled over. Taking the opportunity, I swiped Bianca up and made the killing shot, right between the eyes." He pats at Bianca where it rests against his back, and Cyril shakes her head at him, unable to stop the throaty laugh that bubbles up. 

"I do rather doubt that a Varterral would have attempted eating any of you," Solas says, coming around to place some of the empty bottles in his bag. 

"Aha, that was the word. But how would you know, Chuckles? You ever seen one eat?"

"Sure he has," Cyril says, "he sees all, but he does it with his eyes shut."

"I don't know if I get that one, but sure."

"Cause he sleeps? In the fade? Right?"

Cassandra groans and rolls her eyes, while Solas just purses his lips and shakes his head. Varric gives her a short laugh as he stands and begins shuffling around in his bag. He passes a folded, heavy jacket. The orange fabric is matte in the light, but Cyril smiles at the colour. Yellow embellishments snake around the hem and arms, the inquisition symbol embroidered on one side. She pulls it over with a bit of discomfort. Her back is sore, and a little numb. 

"We should return to Haven, I've done what I can to help the injury and pain, but a proper healer should see to that injury," Solas says while Varric passes over a pair of heavy black gloves, and Cassandra hands her a sword. It's a stark difference from the woman demanding she drop her weapon when they first met. The kind smile that Cassandra gives her makes Cyril's cheeks heat just a bit and she straps the sword onto her belt, surprised to see her boots blood-free. Didn't she... weren't they soaked through earlier? 

The group made their way towards the cross roads, which were apparently not far. She breathed a sigh of relief, glad that she hadn't actually gone too far. Hadn't wasted  _too much_ time. Even if a pit of dread opened in her gut at the thought of returning to the gawking stares in Haven. As she walked at Cassandra's side, something occurred to her.

"Did you call me Tumbles?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falling back into the cycle of getting maybe 3-5 hours of sleep each night.  
> Which I dont mind cause it means I can do more writing! But also.... sleepy...

**Author's Note:**

> I love Cyril! I love her!  
> Love her with me!


End file.
